


Whiteout

by bent_over_moonbeams



Category: Brokeback Mountain (2005)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Canon, Self-Hatred, The Shirts, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 15:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17830853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bent_over_moonbeams/pseuds/bent_over_moonbeams
Summary: Trying to wake up from a dream about Jack is like trying to climb a mountain in a blizzard.





	Whiteout

Ennis wakes in the haze of a dream about Jack’s mouth. The shirt sleeves are wrapped around his neck, but that’s not why he feels like he’s being strangled. In the dream, Jack is Brokeback-young and bright-eyed. In Ennis’ creaking bed, his smell fills the space like blowing snow.

Ennis tries not to sleep with the shirts because someday he won’t even be able to pretend they smell like both’a them anymore, but last night the missing of Jack was like bein’ thrown from a horse over and over and Ennis needed the weight of the fabric to keep himself from being shattered.

He dreams about Jack sometimes. It’s the single highest point in a life of alimony and back-breaking work. Except when the dreams just won’t fade as he wakes up. That feels like torture, like hellfire.

This morning, the idea and imaginary feeling and sight of Jack down on him won’t leave.

Ennis doesn’t bother to untangle himself from the shirts, just reaches into his sleep pants.

It only happened like the dream once. It was the year they sprang for a cabin instead of a tent and Ennis got so drunk he couldn’t convince his arms to shove Jack away or his mind to understand why it’d be important to shove Jack away when Jack got all tender on him, laying real kisses on his stomach and taking his half-hard whiskey dick into his mouth with noises unlike any Ennis’d ever heard.

Jack’d watched him, mouth full and eyes too-intimate. Ennis’d had to put an arm over his face once he could make it move.

In his own bed two decades later, Ennis lets himself keep his eyes on Jack. He keeps his hand clenched painful-tight, pulses it like swallows in a throat, but also like punishment because he’s alive to rub one out and Jack ain’t. Because he’s the reason, because he aches and longs too much.

Because while the vision of Jack somehow smilin’ around a mouthful comes like a whiteout in winter, Ennis knows he’ll go soft before he can find his way to the peak of the mountain.


End file.
